


Recidivism

by domesticadventures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Drug Use, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Overdose, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas does this sometimes, seeks Dean out in the quiet spaces between life or death missions. Such moments are becoming rarer and rarer these days, but they keep finding time for each other anyway, a habit neither of them can break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recidivism

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ash Wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1271422) by [propinquitous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous). 



> this is a remix of [cecilia's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous) excellent fic [ash wednesday](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1271422). it's the more fucked up version she decided not to go with, so if you read and enjoy (maybe "enjoy" is not the right word, but...y'know) this, please go thank her. not just for the existence of both fics, but for holding my hand and cheerleading me through writing actual porn.
> 
> also, please heed the tags. i mean, it's endverse, but...yeah.

Dean is alone in his cabin more often than not, in spite of his reputation.

He tells himself it’s because of the decor, the bare bones layout that hasn’t changed at all from the way he found it: single room except for the bathroom tucked in one corner, a barely passable kitchen opposite. A plain table he uses more as a desk than anything. Small nightstand, simple bed. It’s boring, he thinks. Impersonal. He doesn’t want to be alone, but he doesn’t want to be with anyone when he’s here, in this utilitarian place that is no one’s home, not even his.

More than anything, he works here. Leaves the door open, only the screen in place to keep the bugs out. Lets people come and go to ask him questions, seek out his advice. He lets his cabin be public space so he doesn’t have to try and acknowledge that he lives here. That this is his life, now, and this is all he gets.

So it’s morning, and he’s sitting alone in the home that’s actually just a cabin at the table that’s actually a desk. He’s reviewing maps, planning their next mission so he has something to think about, when there’s a knock at his door.

“Come in,” he says, without turning, because if it was anyone or anything he had to worry about, they wouldn’t have bothered knocking.

“You had me at ‘come,’” Cas says, and Dean can hear the grin in his voice. Cas does this sometimes, seeks Dean out in the quiet spaces between life or death missions. Such moments are becoming rarer and rarer these days, but they keep finding time for each other anyway, a habit neither of them can break.

It’s for comfort, Dean supposes. Not that Dean doesn’t want to be comforted, but what he really needs are more fighters. He almost thinks “more people like me” before he catches himself. He doesn’t need more people like him. He certainly doesn’t need more people like Cas, either. He needs healthy hale adults without hangups, without dependencies, whether chemical or otherwise. People who are angry and desperate enough to want to burn the world to the ground, but not so much that they want themselves to get caught in the flames, too.

People like that are getting harder and harder to find. But Cas is always there, and Dean will take what he can get.

Dean doesn’t look up from the table. He says, “What do you want.” He doesn’t ask it like a question because it isn’t one. He already knows what Cas wants, sees it sometimes in the way Cas looks at him like he’s searching for the Dean that existed a year ago, two years ago, five years ago. He supposes that nowadays, Cas will take what he can get, too.

“Same as always,” Cas says. The wood of the door frame groans in protest as Cas leans against it. “Bang a few--”

“A few gongs before you go out. Yeah, I know,” Dean says. He doesn’t get up, doesn’t turn around. “Don’t you have plenty of other gongs to bang?”

He’s not trying to get rid of Cas, not really, because he knows where this is going, and Cas is an exception. Cas is always an exception. But this is all part of it: the back and forth, the struggle. Everything is a struggle nowadays. Some are more fun than others.

“Of course,” Cas says. Dean hears the shift as Cas stops leaning against the frame, the sound of his soft footsteps as he moves from the doorway. He doesn’t react as Cas walks up behind him and drapes his arms over Dean’s shoulders, leaning down to press a kiss against Dean’s neck that’s more teeth than lips. He adds, “But this one makes my favorite sounds.”

Dean sits still, fingers still playing at the corner of a map as Cas sucks a bruise into his skin. He says, “Is that a challenge?”

Cas laughs against his shoulder. There was a time when Dean thought he would never live to see the day Cas laughed. Now, he’s seen dozens. Hundreds, maybe. He’s lost count. He isn’t sure he likes the change. Cas says, “Isn’t it always?”

And the thing is, it’s becoming more and more of a challenge for both of them, as the days drag on. A physical one, in Cas’ case; he’s losing more and more weight, and not in any kind of good way. He used to be the unstoppable force and the immovable object both, but now he’s becoming more and more insubstantial by the day.

Dean wonders, sometimes, if eventually Cas will simply disappear again, leaving behind nothing but his ugly clothes and whatever pills he was carrying, there at the end. It’s an idle thought, though. Not really worth spending much time on, since neither of them is going to live long enough to find out.

Dean drops his hands from the table, letting his arms hang at his sides, leaning his head back against Cas’ shoulder. “Maybe I’ll keep quiet just to spite you,” he says at the ceiling.

Cas smiles against Dean’s neck, dragging his teeth against Dean’s pulse before he stands, pulling Dean’s chair back from the table. He moves around to plant himself in Dean’s lap, hands on his neck, thumbs pressing against his throat. “You can try,” he says, grinning at Dean like he’s making a promise as he rolls his hips.

Dean rolls his eyes. “You’re insufferable,” he says, and he halfway means it.

Cas shrugs insolently. Everything he does nowadays is insolent. Dean kind of wants the old stick-up-his-ass Cas back, some days, wants the version of Cas who believed in Dean instead of seeing him for what he really is, who treated him like he was worthy of any kind of faith. It’s ironic, Dean thinks, because he now knows Cas’ body as well as he knows the layout of this camp, the borders of the current hot zones, the feel of a gun in his hand -- but he feels like he’s losing his grip on everything else that makes Cas...Cas.

This version of Cas is something else, Cas’ representative, not really him. Dean guesses that maybe it’s an act Cas puts on, something to protect himself from the fact that he still seems to give a shit about Dean, in spite of everything. Like maybe if Cas spends enough time pretending he hates Dean, it’ll actually become true.

Dean had called him on it once, when Cas had been grinning at him and fucking him hard, fingers digging into his hips. “Cas,” he had said, “this isn’t you.”

Nothing Dean had thrown at Cas before had given him pause, not when he told him he was a useless hippie, the camp slut, a good for nothing drunk, a pathetic stoner. Cas had waved him off like it was nothing.

That time, though, Cas had stopped for a moment, looking down at him. “It is now,” he had said, forcing a laugh, but he hadn’t been able to keep the smile on his face. After that, Cas had buried his face in the space between Dean’s neck and shoulder, pressed gentle kisses there, murmuring against Dean’s skin as he fucked him like he loved him.

That had been worse, so now Dean keeps quiet.

Well, as quiet as he can. Cas rolls his hips again as he tugs at Dean’s ear with his teeth, and Dean has to bite back a groan. They both get off on it, now, anyway, the violence of the way they feel about each other. Resisting the way they both seem to want to fight one another would be more effort than it’s worth, so they’ve long since stopped trying.

Cas trails his mouth from Dean’s ear down the side of his face, his stubble rough against Dean’s skin, alternately kissing and biting his way down Dean’s jaw. It’s only when Cas reaches the corner of Dean’s mouth that Dean finally moves, surging forward to meet Cas’ mouth with his own so suddenly that their teeth knock together. Cas gasps in shock or pain or both, but it turns into a breathy chuckle halfway through, Cas returning the kiss with equal force.

Dean keeps his mouth on Cas’ as he wraps his hands around Cas’ thighs, pushing himself up from the chair. Dean relishes the small, surprised noise Cas makes in the back of his throat, pulling Cas’ bottom lip into his mouth and biting down. He carries Cas the few feet it takes to shove him up against the wall between the table and the bed. It’s easy. It’s too easy. He tries not to think about it.

Cas’ breath comes out in a pained huff as his back hits the wall, the force of the impact enough to wind him a little. He doesn’t complain, though; he simply wraps his legs the rest of the way around Dean, hooking his feet together, and grabs onto Dean tighter with his hands, his fingernails pressing into the back of Dean’s neck.

Dean shifts to get a better grip on Cas’ legs, and as he moves slightly to the side, the light filtering in through the single window catches Cas’ eyes. In that moment, Dean can see that Cas’ pupils have constricted so far they’re nearly pinpoints. He may not share in Cas’ hobbies, but he knows what it means: Cas is high as hell. Dean hates knowing that, hates knowing the exact kind of high Cas is, because he’s seen this so many times before. He goes on the supply runs, too, knows exactly how much morphine and oxycodone and tramadol they bring back from those abandoned hospitals and pharmacies. He knows exactly what Cas looks like after he’s downed far more than the recommended dose.

He had questioned Cas about that, too, once. He had been polite about it, or at least as polite as he could manage. He had waited until they had dragged themselves from the bed, cleaned themselves up, put back on their wrinkled clothes. Cas had shaken something into his hand and tossed it back so quickly that Dean hadn’t even been able to see what it was.

“What’s the deal with the pills?” Dean had asked, as they sat cater-cornered from one another, eating their dinner from cans. Cas had paused, staring down into his food. “I’m not judging,” Dean had added, hastily, because at that exact moment, he hadn’t been. “I’m just curious. Really.”

Cas had raised an eyebrow, at first, and Dean had half expected Cas to laugh it off, to ignore him, to give him some bullshit explanation.

Instead, Cas had set down his spoon as he looked up at Dean. He had smiled in this sad, broken way as he lifted his arm, trailing his fingers in the air above Dean’s head, over his shoulders, down his side. “I can almost see you,” Cas had said.

Dean hadn’t understood what he meant, had been on the verge of asking for clarification. But the way Cas had sighed, as he looked away and picked back up his spoon, like there could be no greater disappointment, had stopped him, had caused a lump in his throat that made it that much harder to choke down his cold dinner.

It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. It’s not like there’s anything he could have done then, and it’s not like there’s anything he can do about it now, either. He’s in too deep, he knows. Has been in too deep for far too long. So instead of hating Cas for it, instead of telling Cas to get the fuck out, Dean puts as much anger and frustration and regret as he can into the way he kisses Cas.

Dean grinds against him, both of them half hard in their jeans, and it’s only when his arms start to hurt from holding Cas up that he lets go of his thighs. Cas drops his legs to the floor heavily as Dean works his hands under Cas’ shirt, trailing his thumbs across Cas’ nipples, the way Cas gasps into Dean’s mouth sending a spike of heat down his spine. Dean forces himself to focus on the present, on the scrape of Cas’ stubble against his chin, the heat of his erection against Dean’s own, the feel of Cas’ nipples as they harden beneath his fingers. He sucks on Cas’ tongue as he slides his hands down Cas’ sides, shoving them into Cas’ pants to grab his ass, the added pressure in Cas’ waistband pulling his jeans tight against his dick.

Cas whines breathlessly in response, but rather than trying to push Dean’s hands away, he moves his own hands to Dean’s shoulders. Before Dean catches on to what he has planned, Cas hooks his left leg behind Dean’s right and shoves him hard. He barely manages to stop himself from yelping in surprise as he spins, falling sideways onto the bed.

Cas follows Dean down, pins him to the bed with such force that for a second he actually believes this is going to go a different direction. That they’re finally going to cross the line they’re always walking and he’ll learn what it feels like to connect with Cas in a different way. That maybe he’s finally taken this too far, pushed too hard, and a switch will flip and Cas will go back to how he was, vast fury bottled up in this tiny human form. That he’ll finally direct that at Dean, that Dean will learn the feel of Cas’ fist connecting with his face, bones breaking under the force of the blow. He isn’t quite sure if he fears it or if he’s hoping for it.

Either way, the mental image is so visceral, so tangible, that for a second, Dean swears he tastes blood.

But then Cas is shoving a knee between Dean’s legs to spread them apart and he snaps back to reality, reaches up to yank at Cas’ hair, pulling him down. Cas ruts shamelessly against Dean’s thigh, kissing him sloppily as he pushes Dean’s shirt up over his chest. Dean makes Cas work for it, leaving his arms dead weight. He can hear the seams tearing a little as Cas breaks the kiss to pull Dean’s shirt over his head and arms before tossing it to the floor.

It’s stupid, Dean thinks, with all the bullshit they have to deal with on the daily, to be mad about a shirt. But he liked that shirt, and there’s not a lot of things he likes nowadays, and it feels good to be mad about it. So he responds in kind, reaching up to grab Cas’ shirt where it hangs open, pulling it open with a jerk and tearing it down the middle.

Cas doesn’t protest, though. He just grins and sits up on his knees, shimmying his shoulders so the ruined shirt slides down and off his arms. Once it’s joined Dean’s on the floor, Cas reaches down and undoes Dean’s belt, the button on his jeans, his zipper, and then pulls his pants and boxers off in one swift motion. Dean stifles a gasp as the fabric catches on his now full erection.

Before Dean has a chance to retaliate, Cas stands to kick off his shoes and shuck off his own pants. As soon as his clothing has been discarded, Cas drops back down onto the bed, knees bracketing Dean’s hips. He slides his hands up Dean’s sides before leaning down to kiss him filthily, all tongue and teeth and bruising enthusiasm.

Dean reaches up to fist his hands in Cas’ hair again, pulling Cas’ head down to crush their mouths together. He can feel his lips being rubbed raw from the constant friction from Cas’ perpetual stubble, can feel his skin tear as Cas’ teeth catch it the wrong way. This time, when he tastes blood, he isn’t imagining it.

Cas sucks at Dean’s stinging lip as he starts rolling his hips, trapping their dicks between their bodies as he moves. Even with their bodies coated in sweat, the slide of skin against skin is far too dry for comfort, just barely on the right side of painful.

Dean digs his fingertips into the back of Cas’ skull, gritting his teeth through a couple aching, ruthless minutes of Cas grinding against him before he growls, “Get the fuck on with it.” It comes out sounding enough like a command that he doesn’t feel like he’s made a concession. Cas knows him better than that, though, laughing against Dean’s mouth as he slows to a stop.

Cas rolls off Dean, breathing hard and fast. He wraps an arm around and under Dean, dragging him with him as he readjusts, letting him go once he’s finally laying lengthwise on the bed so he can reach over to the nightstand to grab the lube. Dean doesn’t watch him, closes his eyes against the sight of the increasingly lean lines of Cas’ body. He hears rather than sees Cas open and close the top drawer before moving back to kneel next to Dean’s legs, uncapping the bottle and squeezes some lube out onto his fingers. There’s a soft thump as Cas tosses the lube onto the bed within easy reach before moving back to lay half on Dean, straddling one of his legs and pushing the other aside.

Once Cas is in position, though, he pauses, waiting until Dean opens his eyes again before he resumes his movements. Cas has his eyes fixed on Dean’s face, watching his reactions intently as he reaches down and slides his fingers across the seam of Dean’s balls, pressing briefly against Dean’s perineum before circling his fingers around Dean’s hole. Dean bites his lip against the sudden cold and Cas grins, looking damn pleased with himself.

Dean draws in a sharp breath as Cas crooks the first finger inside of him. He tries desperately to will his muscles to relax as Cas works him open quickly, joining the first finger with a second far too soon.

As he slides his fingers in and out of Dean’s body, Cas moves to bite at Dean’s nipples, flicking at them with his tongue as he slides a third finger in next to the other two. Dean grabs the blankets with one hand and Cas’ bicep with the other, fingers clenched so tight he’s pretty sure he’s going to leave bruises. He clenches his jaw against the occasional stab of pain, forcing himself to control his breathing rather than giving Cas the satisfaction of hearing him hiss in discomfort.

It isn’t always like this, not with everyone. In spite of everything, the unending string of pain and violence and outright torture that his life has become, Dean hasn’t forgotten how to be gentle. He can still manage it, can call up that ability from the depths of his memory. He defaults to it even now, just to prove to himself that he can; he has to be asked by his other partners before he’ll be rough with them.

It’s always like this with Cas, though. Always quick and dirty and unapologetic, much more in keeping with the tone of the past few years, the way Dean has become even more intimately familiar with brutal efficiency, with how to twist a knife into someone just _so_ in order to get them to give you the information you need.

He likes it this way, likes the harsh honesty of it. He never has to tell Cas any of the bullshit he feeds the other people he sleeps with, just to see how convincingly he can lie. He doesn’t need to tell Cas they “have a connection.” Cas already knows. That’s half the goddamn problem.

The other half is the way Cas is fucking Dean mercilessly with his fingers, moving to drag his bottom teeth against Dean’s chest and up his neck until he’s kissing Dean, his free hand curled tightly in Dean’s hair. Cas pulls back just far enough to flash a wicked little grin as he twists his hand and gets the angle _just_ right, brushing against Dean’s prostate in a way that has him arching up off the bed, mouth hanging open. Cas repeats the motion as he ruts against Dean’s leg in time with the thrusts of his fingers, dick sliding against his damp skin.

They’re both sweaty and breathing hard when Cas finally pulls his fingers all the way out to squeeze more lube onto his hand. He jacks himself off a few times to coat his dick with lube before moving between Dean’s legs and lining himself up, not bothering with a condom.

Dean had asked Cas about that, too, the first time they did this, back before either of their dicks had been in half the camp. Even though they had both been drunk, Dean had had the presence of mind to say, “Woah, hold up, what about…”

The words had died on Dean’s lips at the puzzled look Cas had given him, the way he had tilted his head. Cas hadn’t smiled at him back then, had scoffed before he had asked, incredulous, “It’s the end of the world, and you’re worried about STDs?”

Dean hadn’t been able to argue, because doing so would have been an admission. Would have been him saying that yeah, they did need to worry about it, because maybe they were going to make it through this. Maybe they were still going to pull off the whole saviors-of-the-world thing. Even then, he hadn’t been able to do it, hadn’t been able to lie to either of them and make it seem like he still held on to any kind of hope about the way he’s still sure their storyline will play out.

“Fine,” he had said, lying back and closing his eyes. “Whatever.” Cas had pushed himself inside Dean with a grunt, just like he’s doing now.

As Cas sets up a rhythm, it’s all Dean can do to hold on, wrapping his arms under Cas’ and gripping his shoulders. Heat builds from the point where Cas’ body meets his, spreads out until it’s curling under his skin, flooding his senses, making it harder and harder to bite back the noises his body seems so intent on making.

Dean already feels himself unravelling when Cas finally reaches a hand between them. His grip on Dean’s dick is loose and lazy, but Dean is so close already that it’s more than enough. After a few quick pumps of Cas’s hand, Dean comes with a moan, hands fisted in the sheets. Cas chuckles breathlessly as he strokes Dean through his orgasm, his way of saying _I win._

As Dean comes back down, his body going slack, there’s a moment where his eyelids flutter open and he meets Cas’ gaze with his own. The look Cas is giving him is one of such bliss that for a second, Dean thinks _I’ll take whatever he’s having._

It only lasts for a heartbeat before they both seem to catch themselves. Dean lets his eyes drift closed as Cas lets go of him to brace himself on both elbows, fingers curling in Dean’s hair, pulling tight. He fucks Dean into the mattress, rhythm erratic, breath coming quick and shallow.

It’s only when Dean reaches up to rake his fingernails across Cas’ back hard enough to leave marks that Cas’ breath stutters and he comes with a choked groan. Dean relishes the way he can feel a shiver trail its way down Cas’ spine, pulls Cas close as he slows his thrusts. When he finally pulls out, he collapses on top of Dean, both of them spent, too tired to go to the trouble of cleaning themselves off.

They fall asleep like that, sticky and sweaty, Cas a solid weight against Dean’s chest, Cas’ breath hot against Dean’s neck.

When Dean wakes, it’s with a start, alarm bells going off in his mind. He lies completely still, trying to figure out what it is that startled him from sleep, some sound, some shift in the light. But there’s nothing, just the afternoon sun filtering in through the windows, everything still and quiet. Cas is still asleep on top of him, and--

And he realizes that it’s the quiet that woke him up. He draws in a steadying breath.

“Cas?” he asks, but gets no response. He reaches a hand up to shove at Cas’ shoulder. “C’mon,” he says. “Get off me.” Cas still doesn’t move, so Dean grabs his shoulder and shakes him in earnest. “Cas, c’mon,” he says, more insistently. His heart pounds harder with every passing second that Cas doesn’t wake up, every second he still can’t feel Cas’ breath against his no longer sweaty skin.

When Dean rolls Cas off him and onto his back, his lips are blue, his skin ashen.

“Nonononono,” Dean says, grabbing Cas face, lifting his head. “Wake up, you asshole,” he commands, uselessly. “You don’t get to leave me here, too,” he says. He can hear how pathetic he sounds. He doesn’t care. “Wake up,” he says, pleading.

“Fuck,” he says, dropping Cas’ head back onto the pillow and rolling him onto his side. “Fuckfuck _fuck_.”

Dean swings his legs over the edge of the bed, reaching the door in a few long strides and pausing to pull on his boots, yanking the laces just tight enough that they won’t fall off as he runs. He’ll run across the camp naked and covered in dried jizz, fuck it, but like hell is he going to die of some shitty infection after stepping on some rusted piece of crap. They didn’t come this far, didn’t make it through literal hell, just for him to be killed by something so stupid. Just like they didn’t come this far just for Cas to be killed by a fucking _flower_.

Dean lets the screen door slam behind him as he sprints to Cas’ cabin, pushing the beads aside and heading for the cabinets lining one wall, digging through the drawers. _Fuck,_ he thinks, _where is it, it has to be here, Cas has to be smart enough that when he was grabbing all those pills and all that booze that he grabbed some fucking Narcan._

After opening three consecutive drawers, each of them filled with nothing but assorted bottles and loose pills and detritus, he tries waking the people lying around in various states of undress. “Hey, is there any Narcan here?” he practically yells, shaking them by their shoulders, nudging them with his feet. “C’mon, where’s the fucking naloxone?”

He gets a few useless mumbled responses before he gives up, returning to his frantic search. He’s in the middle of stepping over someone he only vaguely recognizes, blanking on a name to go with the naked body, when a thought strikes him.

Dean picks his way across Cas’ floor, making his way to the bed and yanking open the drawer of Cas’ nightstand. Sure enough, right there, at the perfect height for someone to just roll over and grab one without having to even get up, are a bunch of blue packets with the words overdose prevention rescue kit printed across the front.

As he grabs a few of the bags and starts running back to his own cabin, Dean wonders, idly, how many other people have had to do this for Cas, how many other people are responsible for the fact that Cas is still stuck here with him.

Dean is breathing hard by the time he sprints back through his door, kicking off his boots and moving to sit back on the bed as he tosses the extra bags onto the nightstand. He rips the last one open and spills its contents out onto the sheets, connecting the cartridge to the needleless syringe with shaking hands. He rolls Cas over, using one hand to tilt his head back as he uses the other to spray half of the narcan up each side of Cas’ nose.

Dean takes a deep breath as he tosses the syringe aside, moving to plug Cas’ nose with one hand and open his mouth with the other. He leans down and breathes into Cas twice in succession before pausing to brush Cas’ hair back from his face. “C’mon, breathe for me, Cas,” he says, quietly. He leans down to repeat the process. “Please breathe for me,” he says. Another breath. “Please don’t fucking do this.”

Dean breathes for Cas for what feels like an eternity before the Narcan finally takes effect and Cas takes a shuddering breath on his own. Cas’ eyes flutter open briefly before he closes them again, turning his face away.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Dean says, grabbing Cas’ face and turning it back, pulling him into a rough kiss. “You scared the shit out of me,” he says, moving to wrap his arms around Cas and pull him up, cradling him and rocking back and forth. “I hate you so goddamn much,” he says into Cas’ hair, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “I fucking hate you, Cas, don’t you dare do that again.”

Dean can feel Cas’ tears dripping down onto his shoulder. He knows that’s the only apology he’s going to get.

Cas starts trembling as Dean clings to him, and as if that wasn’t awful enough on its own, all the adrenaline coursing through Dean’s system has him half hard again. He supposes that all the bad habits he’s indulged in with his interactions with Cas have blurred the line between the type of arousal that comes from sexual action and attraction and the kind that comes from fear and anger and hurt. Cas has nearly _died_ and Dean’s body is already gearing up for another lay. He knows how fucked up that is. He definitely knows, but there’s not a goddamn thing he can do to stop it.

Dean lets out an unsteady breath against Cas’ ear as he lies down, pulling Cas against him, his head tucked against Dean’s chin. He doesn’t have the energy to force Cas to stand up or talk to him or do anything else that would keep him awake, so he pulls a blanket over them both and lets Cas sleep, even though he knows he shouldn’t.

Dean lies there with his eyes open, forcing himself to stay awake and listen to Cas breathe. He hates that he knows this, that he _has_ to know this, but the effects of the Narcan might not last as long as the effects of whatever shit Cas took. So he has to stay awake, even if Cas doesn’t, and he has to wait.

Sure enough, an hour or so later, judging by the change in the light, Cas’ breathing becomes dangerously slow. Dean untangles himself from Cas calmly, not bothering to try shaking him awake as he administers another dose of Narcan.

He sighs as he lies back down, holding Cas close as his breathing returns to normal. He fights to keep his own breathing even as he catches himself wondering what it means, that Cas is so cavalier with his own life and yet still _here._

Cas doesn’t wake until the sun is low in the sky, the dim light casting everything in a warm glow. They’re lying on their sides, Dean with his arms still wrapped around Cas’ back, Cas’ face pressed to his chest.

Cas yawns, arching his back and stretching one arm toward the ceiling before wrapping it around Dean. He nuzzles against Dean’s chest, saying, as though there’s nothing wrong, “Ready for round two?”

Dean doesn’t respond right away. He’s thinking about every brush with death they’ve had in the past, about every one they’ll surely have in the future, like he’s keeping a mental tally.

He’s pretty sure that keeping track of how many times someone dies and comes back to you is a fucked up way of measuring how much they love you.

He’s addicted to it, though; hopelessly, endlessly, irrevocably.

“Yeah,” Dean says, smiling, baring his teeth. “I am.”


End file.
